


The Impenetrable Mind Palace of Muggle Sherlock Holmes

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Failed Deductions, Humor, M/M, New Neighbor, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: Sherlock is obsessed with the new neighbor - the one who's rented Mrs. Hudson's flat while she spends a year abroad. There's something odd about the amiable man, but Sherlock just can't put his finger on it. And when has Sherlock Holmes ever failed at deducing someone?
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 41
Kudos: 289





	The Impenetrable Mind Palace of Muggle Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This can easily be imagined as Part 1 of something more - probably something much more fleshed out as time allows.

A very excited Sherlock Holmes pushed his way into the kitchen where John was unpacking groceries.

“We have new neighbors, John!”

John had just dropped two bags of groceries onto the counter and had the milk in hand, refrigerator open. He removed an empty carton from the top shelf, scowling at Sherlock for putting it back inside after draining it, and slid the new carton in its place. He already knew they had new neighbors – Mrs. Hudson had let out her flat for a year while she went abroad with her niece. She’d phoned him a few days ago to let them know the new tenants would be moving in this week.

“Surprised?” John asked as he unpacked bread and eggs and apples and potatoes. “Didn’t realise that when Mrs. Hudson told us she’d be leasing the flat out for a year that we’d actually have new neighbors?”

Sherlock opened the refrigerator and reached for the milk.

“I’ve met them,” he clarified. “Well, one of them, anyway. Harry. Divorced, three children, works in law enforcement. Amiable, if you go for that sort of thing. Something odd about him, though.”

“How much of this did he actually tell you?” John asked as he reached around Sherlock for the milk and put it back in the refrigerator.

Sherlock shrugged. “None of it, actually. We exchanged pleasantries as he attempted to unlock Mrs. Hudson’s door and I started up the stairs.”

“Pleasantries?” John was clearly amused. “What sort of pleasantries?”

“Oh, the usual. I might have mentioned to him that the door would open if he used the silver key instead of the brass, and that he’d actually locked the deadbolt instead of unlocking it.”

“Well, you managed to get his name at least.”

“He introduced himself. Harry something or other. Did I mention he’s gay?”

John shook his head. “Nope. Didn’t mention that.” He didn’t ask how Sherlock knew. “Does he have a partner?”

“He didn’t say, but yes. Won’t have one for long if he keeps wearing that atrocious jumper, though.”

“Just because you hate jumpers doesn’t mean that all men hate them, Sherlock.”

“This one made my eyes hurt. Scarlet with his initials in gold.”

John shrugged. “Jumpers are comfortable.” He made his way out of the kitchen and over to his chair, sinking down onto it and pulling Sherlock’s ottoman toward him with one foot. “I’ll invite him up for dinner next week – Mrs. Hudson did ask us to look after her place. We should know who’s renting it.”

“Excellent idea. Have him bring Thai – usual order.”

John opened his laptop, mostly ignoring Sherlock.

“And we’ll eat at his place – so I can deduce him properly.”

“We’ll eat here – we can’t invite him for dinner at his own flat. What about those children?” He looked around the flat, mentally cringing at the thought of three children in Sherlock Holmes’ home. It had been bad enough keeping Rosie relatively unscathed during her first decade of life.

“With their mother, or off at school, or – I don’t know. Definitely not living with him now.”

“I’ll ask when I see him,” John said. “Wait – he did tell you he has children, right? You didn’t deduce that by stealing his wallet and going through his photos or studying the wear pattern on his trousers?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John glanced into the kitchen. Sherlock had the milk out of the refrigerator again and was headed toward their bedroom with it. John shook his head and turned on the news. Best to be sure all was well in Buenos Aires what with Rosie spending her gap year in South America.

ooOOOoo

“Well, that was actually a very pleasant evening,” John noted a few days later as he slid the milk back into the refrigerator. He continued cleaning up while Sherlock watched him impatiently.

“I don’t believe he’s in law enforcement,” Sherlock mused. He’s been quiet for too long and didn’t sound completely convinced of his own argument.

“Private security, most likely,” John said. “He – well, he didn’t exactly answer when you asked him, did he?”

“Didn’t he?” Sherlock frowned. “Well, he must have taken a flat in London for a reason, and work is the most likely reason since his ex-wife is off in New Zealand coaching a football team I’ve never heard of and his children are out of the house or at school in Scotland.”

“What about the boyfriend?” John was willing enough to change direction here, though he was vaguely troubled that Sherlock hadn’t deduced their new neighbor to the point of blood type and internet habits. “Maybe his boyfriend lives nearby.”

Sherlock considered, apparently running several scenarios through his head. “Right. The boyfriend. Did he mention he has one?”

John laughed. “No – you did. The day you met him.”

“Well, he should have one. He’s single, gay, attractive, a good conversationalist, reasonably intelligent and can afford a flat in a prime location in London on his own”

John rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should date him.”

Sherlock frowned. “I already have a husband, John. Why would I want to complicate things and start dating again?”

John smiled. He doubted that Sherlock had ever dated anyone, his current husband included. “Why don’t you drop in on him one day this week?” he asked. “You just need to see how he’s arranged the flat – what personal possessions he’s put about – maybe the pieces will fall together then and you’ll know what he’s really all about.”

“I shouldn’t need to.” Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his face. “Yet – he puzzles me.”

“He doesn’t have a mobile phone,” John said. “I asked him for his number.”

Sherlock stared at John, slowly blinked, then stared at him again, perhaps surprised that it was still John standing there and not some alien life form or dream phantom.

“Yeah, I know,” John said. “He says to knock if we need him and to slip a note under the door if he doesn’t answer.”

“Right.” Sherlock did not sound as if that was right at all.

“Look, so what if we can’t figure him out? He’s not a criminal. He’s done nothing wrong. He was thoroughly vetted by the agency leasing the flat.”

“Of course!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Mycroft!”

He grabbed his mobile and wandered off into the bedroom and John was left thinking that this couldn’t possibly turn out well.

ooOOOoo

“Where have you been?” John asked a few days later. He’d come home from work an hour before to an empty flat and Sherlock hadn’t answered his text messages.

“Downstairs with our new neighbor,” Sherlock said as he hung up his coat and dropped his keys onto the table. 

“And how did you talk yourself inside?” asked John.

“Almost no technology at all!” exclaimed Sherlock. He either hadn’t heard John, or deliberately ignored his question. “No television, mobile phone, computer, tablet – nothing. There’s an ancient landline telephone and a radio that must have been around during the war.” Sherlock was speaking at an ever-increasing tempo and John didn’t bother trying to keep up. “Photos of the children on the mantel – two gingers and one that looks quite a bit like him. Wife was also a ginger – slim, athletic, quite pretty if you go in for such things.”

“Such things? You mean women?” John’s closed his laptop and focused on Sherlock with a vague smile.

“Of course I mean women. No photos with the boyfriend, though he started to mention him then changed course when he realised he’d done so.”

John grinned. “Was he wearing the jumper?”

“Fortunately, no. Plain denims, long-sleeve button-down, dark green. Leather boots – couldn’t identify the leather source without closer examination. And on the rack by the door – the most magnificent cloak, John. Bespoke, I’m sure. Impeccably designed and constructed. I asked for the name of his tailor, but he was oddly hesitant to provide it – though in the end he did say he’d let me know next time the man came ‘round.”

“His tailor comes ‘round?” John whistled. “No wonder he’s tight-lipped about him.”

“He had a fire going in the grate,” Sherlock commented as he dropped onto the sofa, removed his shoes, then stretched out, giving the ceiling a puzzled look.

“In this weather?” John shrugged. “Well, it’s not summer yet – maybe he just likes fires?”

“Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t like the mess – ash all over the hearth rug.”

“Well, he’s not burned anything up, has he? He hardly seems the sort to play with fire, Sherlock.”

“But the footprints!” Sherlock protested, still staring aggressively at the ceiling.

“Footprints?” 

“Yes – haven’t I said? The footprints in the ashes.” Sherlock turned his head slowly toward John and lowered his voice. “The footprints leading _out_ of the fireplace – and not a one leading _in_.”

“A little early for Father Christmas,” John mused.

“I think he’s having me on,” Sherlock said, once again conversing with the ceiling. “He’s heard about me and is playing games.” He narrowed his eyes and gazed at John suspiciously. “Are you in on this, John? Sneaking down there and giggling in the corner with him while you plot ways to make me think I’m losing my mind?”

John sighed. “You’re on to us now. We had a regular giggle session this morning while we mounted shoes on the end of a broomstick to make those footprints. Then after, we painted each other’s nails and shared secrets about our boyfriends.”

“You don’t even have a boyfriend,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“No, I have a husband. A rather ridiculous one who’s a bit too obsessed about our new neighbor. Just let it go, Sherlock. Harry’s perfectly ordinary. Not everyone loves technology.”

“So it’s perfectly ordinary that he has an owl?” asked Sherlock.

John scoffed. “An owl, Sherlock? Is that what you think he keeps in that budgie cage?”

“Yes, an owl. The sort that hunts at night and swivels its head around and doesn’t look a bit like a budgie.”

“Have you actually seen an owl in the flat, Sherlock?” John challenged.

“I didn’t need to. I saw owl pellets.”

“Owl pellets?” 

“Owl droppings, John. Full of fur and bones. They’re called pellets.”

John shook his head and opened his laptop again.

“Oh come on, John! Owl pellets! Really? You’ve no idea. Google it, for God’s sake!”

John obliged, quite willing to prove to himself at least that Sherlock’s interest in their perfectly ordinary new neighbor had drifted from “interest” to “obsession.”

“Hmm,” he said after a moment, his eyes still scanning back and forth across the monitor. 

“Well?” asked Sherlock smugly. “What did it say?”

“That you absolutely did not see an owl pellet in Harry Potter’s budgie cage,” John said. He closed his laptop and glanced warily back at the glaring Sherlock. “Did you?”

“Several. Approximately three inches long. Bottom of the cage. The cage, might I add, that is at least five times the size of a budgie cage. Really, John, your observation skills….”

“Alright. It’s unusual to have an owl for a pet but not unheard of. Where was this owl, anyway?”

“No idea.”

“Sherlock – did you ask Harry if he owns an owl or did you just poke about in his things while he was out of the room?”

Sherlock averted his eyes. “Chinese?” he asked, wandering off into the kitchen.

“That cage is covered, Sherlock. You can’t just go snooping around in his flat – it’s not – Sherlock!”

ooOOOoo

One Friday evening some weeks later, John fell down the stairs and practically onto the lap of Harry’s boyfriend.

He’d been hurrying down the stairs on his way to the shops, hoping to get there and back before Sherlock got home, when the sudden and unexpected appearance of a man dressed in black at the bottom of the stairs, seemingly out of nowhere, startled him so much that he’d lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs.

By the time he sorted himself, groaning and realising his ankle was definitely positively absolutely broken, Harry was bending down over him and the other bloke was examining his foot.

“I’m going to need the A&E,” John managed, wincing, when he finally got his breath back.

“Does anything hurt besides your foot?” asked an unfamiliar voice. Low and a bit gravelly, rich in a way John couldn’t explain. It was almost as if the person speaking was there but _not_ there. As if the voice was only in John’s head.

“No – ankle’s broken.” John paused as an odd tingling in his ankle spread up his leg and vanished as suddently as it had begun. “Christ – where did you _come_ from?”

Harry, who’d helped John arrange himself in a seated position, leaning against the wall, handed him his mobile, which had apparently tumbled out of his pocket. “Sev does that – he’s always popping up where you don’t expect him. We – well, we work together.”

“What – with M15?”

Harry laughed but John was absolutely sure the other man muttered “something like that” loud enough for John to hear and Harry elbowed him and smiled.

John leaned forward, trying to get a better look at his ankle which he knew must be the size of a cantaloupe. Though it was throbbing painfully, he was starting to second guess his original diagnosis.

“It’s not broken,” Harry’s friend announced authoritatively. “But you’ll want to ice it and elevate it.”

For some reason, going back to his flat sounded like a perfectly fine idea. They helped him upstairs and Harry settled him on the sofa with a pillow and quilt and elevated his foot on a stack of pillows from the bed. He then fetched John’s medical kit and Sev deftly wrapped John’s ankle then prepped an ice pack. While Harry kept up an amiable chatter, Sev spoke little, though he looked around the flat curiously, and seemed most interested in what John fondly called Sherlock’s lab – the chaotic disaster of the kitchen table. John hoped there weren’t any body parts pickling in brine on full display.

Harry, who really was a pleasant, friendly man and who seemed quite reluctant to leave John alone, was finally convinced to leave him when assured that Sherlock was on his way home, but he had to pull Sev away from his examination of Sherlock’s microscope. John sincerely hoped Sherlock had put away the slides of John’s semen – why Sherlock cared a whit about sperm vitality at this point in their relationship he couldn’t guess.

True to form, Sherlock was more interested in the mysterious Sev than in John’s injury, though he circled back several times to John believing the ankle was broken, not sprained, frowning and insisting on unwrapping it to check for himself. Satisfied that they wouldn’t need a trip to the A&E, he’d gone downstairs on the pretense of thanking Harry for looking after John but no one answered his knock and the key he’d kept that opened Mrs. Hudson’s front door refused to cooperate and unlock it now that she was out of the country. He came back upstairs and plopped down unhappily in his chair, then began to pepper John with questions about Harry’s boyfriend, most of which John couldn’t answer to his satisfaction.

“No, I don’t know where he works, but I assume in the medical field. No idea how tall he is – taller than me and taller than Harry but I didn’t get out a tape measure, Sherlock. How old? 60? Maybe? I didn’t ask to see his driving license, for Christ’s sake. Accent? I’m not the accent expert, you berk. British. London. I don’t know. Why does it matter?”

When he couldn’t dig out any more details of the mysterious Sev, Sherlock began interrogating John on the cause of the tumble.

“I’ve already told you – he wasn’t there, and then he was. It surprised me. I lost my footing. Accidents happen, Sherlock. Maybe the carpet is coming loose.”

In the end, Sherlock had given up and taken pity on John. He’d made tea and sandwiches, and gave John the remote control, then took a photo of John sprawled on the sofa with wrapped foot elevated and sent it to Rosie with the caption “Forgot to tie his shoes and fell down the stairs.”

A week later, when John was hobbling about the flat but wasn’t quite ready for the stairs. Sherlock, not accustomed to having John home 24/7, apparently needed a bit of space.

“I’m going to drop in on Harry,” he announced after John, bored with every single one of the 145 channels available on their television, changed the channel for the third time in five minutes.

“If Sev is there, thank him for the excellent medical care,” John called out as Sherlock disappeared out the door.

An hour and forty-four channels later, he finally heard Sherlock climbing the stairs.

“Back – sorry it took so long. I couldn’t find the rhubarb biscuits,” Sherlock called out as he carried the shopping bags into the kitchen.

Shopping bags?

“You went to the shops?” John asked, utterly amazed.

“Of course I went to the shops. We were out of milk. And bread. And I wanted to make a treacle tart.

“A treacle tart?” 

Sherlock poked his head out of the kitchen. “It’s my favorite,” he said. 

“What about Harry?” John asked, wondering if Sherlock had had a blow to the head.

“Haven’t seen him,” Sherlock replied. He seemed in quite a good mood for someone who’d gone down to visit the neighbor and returned an hour later with an armful of shopping bags including, apparently, the ingredients for a treacle tart.

“Not home then?” John persisted. What the hell was Sherlock playing at?

“No idea.” He paused, frowning, then shrugged. “I suppose I meant to visit him, but I suddenly remembered we were out of milk and bread and it seemed much more important to get to the shops.”

“Sherlock – we’re not out of milk and bread. I had groceries delivered yesterday.”

“Ah – so that’s where the milk came from. Now, how does one go about making treacle tart?”

ooOOOoo

John was back in form by April, which was fortunate, as Rosie was due back at the beginning of May and they had to clear out all of the things they’d stored in her bedroom in her year-long absence. On the day of her arrival, Sherlock left a few minutes before John to flag down a cab, but when John came down the stairs a minute or two later, he found Sherlock motionless before the door of 221A. He held his finger to his lips and John shook his head, exasperated.

Clearly, there was a party, or a celebration of some sort, going on inside. Voices rose – male and female – and laughter, and an occasional chorus of “Hear hear!” accompanied by clicking glasses. After a long minute or two, John took Sherlock’s hand and urged him outside. John paused to open his umbrella – it had been raining for two days straight – but Sherlock forged ahead to the street, a cab materialized out of the mist and pulled over, and they settled themselves for the drive to Heathrow.

“Really, Sherlock? Spying on the neighbor’s party?”

“Did you find it odd that Harry had that many people inside his flat but there wasn’t a drop of water or a single footprint on the floor in the corridor?”

“Not at all,” John answered.

“Because you didn’t notice. And don’t even suggest that the floors have dried already. If they had, there’s have been traces of mud – at least one partial footprint but more likely dozens. And what do you do with your brolly before going inside? You shake it off. Yet not a single drop of water or splatter mark anywhere.”

“So they’re clean – someone mopped up after they all arrived.”

“As ridiculous as that suggestion is, I’ll honour it before striking it down. The floor was not clean – but neither was there any evidence of passing foot traffic. John – those people did not use the door to enter 221A.”

“Yes they did. They didn’t magic themselves there or crawl in a window and they certainly aren’t coming down the chimney – no – they’re not, Sherlock.”

“I asked Mycroft for CCTV footage several weeks ago to test a theory,” Sherlock admitted after a long moment where he stared out at the rain, face thoughtful.

“There you go. Get today’s. Settle this matter once and for all,” John said. “Before you know it the year will be over and Mrs. Hudson will be home. Then you can get back to worrying about her breaking a hip.”

“He said no.”

The statement hung in the air between them. Mycroft refused Sherlock’s request? Sherlock could be so persistent he’d have strangers revealing their NI numbers on a crowded tube carriage.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. “He said an order had come down that even he couldn’t get around and he _is_ the government, John.”

“He won’t give it to you or he won’t give it to anyone?” John asked. He couldn’t count the times Sherlock had pored over footage he had no business having.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Forget about it. You won’t have time to worry about Harry Potter once Rosie is here – she’ll have you running all over London. You’ll be too tired to spy on the neighbors.”

The prospect of having Rosie home for the summer distracted Sherlock for the rest of the cab ride, the wait at the airport and the trip back to 221B. It wasn’t until Rosie and Sherlock were struggling inside while John paid the cabbie and Sherlock accidentally on purpose fell heavily against the door of 221A that the problem of the technology-averse, front-door avoiding new neighbor plopped itself back down front and center in Sherlock’s focus.

A young man, a younger version of Harry, threw open the door in apparent alarm.

“Are you alright?” he asked, reaching out to take Sherlock’s hand and help him back to his feet. “Oh – hello.”

His eyes had skipped over Sherlock to focus on Rosie.

“Hullo,” she returned, eying Sherlock who was peering inside the flat where voices floated out from the kitchen. “We’re sorry to bother you – I suppose he’s not used to carrying so much weight.”

“Your dad?” asked the man, frowning as John hurried into the building.

“One of them anyway,” Rosie answered. She stuck out her hand with a confident smile. “I’m Rose Watson.”

He grinned and took her hand. “Al Potter. Two dads?” He motioned into the flat behind him and lowered his voice. “My dad’s trying out the boyfriend thing. With my former headmaster.” He gave a pretend shudder and Rosie laughed, but it was all she could talk about when they were finally upstairs in 221B.

“Alright,” she demanded. “Who thought it important to tell me an oddball who doesn’t use technology or leave footprints is living in Mrs. Hudson’s flat but _not_ important to mention that he has _that_ for a son?” She glared at her fathers with feigned annoyance.

“We didn’t know he had _that_ for a son,” John answered. “He’s obviously been away at school.”

“In Scotland,” supplied Sherlock. “But there’s a photo of him on the mantel, John.”

“He’s probably eight years old in that photo,” John shot back.

“Just stop it, you two,” Rosie said with a laugh. She looked around and gave a happy sight, then executed a perfect spin with her arms spread out. “Home!” she exclaimed. “It’s so good to be back.”

ooOOOoo

For someone who was so happy to be home, Rose Watson spent precious little time in it. The upside, for Sherlock anyway, was that when she was home, Al Potter was invariably there with her.

Like Rosie, Al would be off to uni in the Fall. Like Rosie, he loved chemistry. Like Rosie, he had a father with a male partner. 

Sherlock managed to get one good question in during each visit. Rosie would stop him after one, accusing him of prying, and thus he spent a great deal of effort planning each question to make it appear as casual and innocent as possible.

In this way, he learned that Harry Potter had grown up in Surrey, that he’d lived in Scotland most of his adult life, and that Severus really had been, for a time, the headmaster at Al’s school. And while he’d told Sherlock the name of the school – surely he had – Sherlock could never remember it, nor could he find the paper he’d written the name on no matter how long he’d searched.

“I don’t know, Da– Hawkins? Hambridge? Does it matter? Some sort of whole child alternative learning academy. But he’ll be at Cambridge next year, studying chemistry! With me!”

John loved Al. He found him polite, thoughtful, intelligent, responsible, respectful and family-oriented.

Sherlock didn’t dislike him – Rosie had brought home far worse, mostly to see how long they’d last with Sherlock. But he didn’t trust him either. He was too perfect. Too _right_ for Rosie. And wasn’t that suspicious?

No, John said. No it wasn’t. It was _fortuitous_. And no – the occasional odd vocabulary Al used was just a curiosity, not a matter of national security worthy of Mycroft’s investigation. So he called a dog a crup. It was probably an odd Scottish breed. And it was smuggle, not muggle – Sherlock really should get his hearing checked.

On the last day of Al’s stay with his father – he’d be off to visit his mum for a couple weeks next - John had the whole family up for dinner.

The whole family included Harry and Al plus Lily and Jamie, and Severus as a surprise bonus. There was a good deal of grumbling from Sherlock, who was forced to clear the table of the detritus of a dozen ongoing experiments. But Rosie and Al helped, and Al stared mesmerised at the bowl of human ears while Rosie calmly explained that they were from the morgue, and that Sherlock was not actually a deranged serial killer.

“My uncle lost an ear in the war,” he told her, touching a particularly bulbous earlobe with the tip of one finger.

“My dad was shot – in Afghanistan,” Rosie supplied casually. “He’s got a fabulous scar – not quite as fabulous as your dad’s though. And Da too – but he was shot by my mother – in the heart. He almost died.” She grinned. 

Al looked both intrigued and aghast. “Did she shoot him because he was messing around with your dad?” he asked, voice low.

“No – it was much more complicated than that,” Sherlock called out from the kitchen. “Now stop asking impertinent questions and tell us something about your mum instead.”

“She’s wickedly fast,” Al answered, obviously proud of this fact. “A real athlete – She wanted me to go pro too but I’m really not that good – and I really wanted to go to uni.”

“Family?” Sherlock had come in with a rag and gave the table a few cursory wipes. “Significant other?”

“Nah – she’s not with anyone. Not like dad and Professor Snape.”

“Professor?” Sherlock stopped wiping and focused on Al. 

“Oh – old habit.” Al shrugged. “He taught – uh – chemistry when he was headmaster. He left a few years ago.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s eyebrows reached for the bridge of his nose. “So – your mother’s family?”

“Right.” Al appeared relieved to change the subject. “She’s the youngest of seven – well, six now. Fred was killed in the war. He and George were twins – George is the one with only one ear. Anyway, mum’s the only girl.”

“And where does this family live?” prompted Sherlock, pretending to swipe at the table again. Rose had disappeared into the kitchen to help John, leaving Sherlock with relative freedom to grill Al until he broke down and admitted the entire family was from another planet – one that traveled by fireplace floo.

“At the Burrow – well, that’s what they call the house. Gramps and Gran are still there.’

“The Burrow?” Sherlock pulled out a chair and motioned Al into it. He leaned in closer. “Do elaborate.”

“The Burrow…” Al squirmed a bit in his chair. “Well, it’s – kind of ramshackle, I guess. There’s a pond, and a qui – a pitch. Gramps collects plugs and batteries and car parts.”

“And this … burrow. Where is it located?”

“Near Ottery St Catchpole,” Al supplied helpfully.

“Which is….?”

“In England – Devon, I think.”

“You think?”

“I don’t really pay much attention to how we get there,” Al said. He looked nervously around for Rosie, then stood up. “Well, I’d better go down for a bit.”

He made a quick escape, and Sherlock sulked for another hour until the appointed time arrived and a hoard of elephants tramped up the stairs and knocked on the door.

John was a most welcoming and cordial host who didn’t ask intrusive questions and seemed to genuinely enjoy getting to know Harry and his family better. Sherlock, however, oblivious to social niceties, turned to Al as they were finishing the meal and blurted “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Er….” Al looked helplessly from Rosie to John, but neither rose to his rescue as they were both giving Sherlock the stink eye.

“Your uncles – the one who died. The one who lost an ear.”

“Iraq,” answered Severus, quite smoothly. He put his fork down and regarded Sherlock. “Did you serve?”

“Not my area,” Sherlock said quickly.

“No – he was shot by Rosie’s mother,” Al supplied. “Not in a war at all.”

Now all heads swiveled to stare at Sherlock.

“It’s complicated,” Sherlock said, glaring at John as if this fiasco of a conversation was somehow his fault.

“Ancient history,” John said, voice falsely bright. “So, anyone for pudding? I made treacle tart.”

“That’s odd,” Sherlock said. “You’ve never made treacle tart before in your life.”

“Ah – hmm. Well, it seemed like a good idea,” John said. “Never to late to learn, I suppose, is it?”

ooOOOoo

Six years later, or closer to seven, John and Sherlock, who’d forgotten nearly all they knew about Harry Potter and his family after Mrs. Hudson returned home from her year abroad and Harry moved to a flat across town, stood before a rickety gate in front of a ramshackle four-story house just outside the village of Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon.

“Well, nothing here for us to see, John,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “The navigation system is not to be trusted – I’ve told you that for years, haven’t I? It’s taken us to a deserted house – probably full of criminals and miscreants.”

“John! Sherlock! Welcome! Oh – I can’t tell you how I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Muggles! Famous Muggles! A detective and a doctor in the family – Molly is dying to meet you both.”

The bald man who’d seemingly appeared out of nowhere on the other side of the fence reached out to shake Sherlock’s hand, then John’s, and opened the gate and ushered them through. As he did so, their heads cleared and the house was suddenly homey and not ramshackle, and John remembered exactly why they were there and Sherlock was less fuzzy about the whole thing. Oddly, those Muggle-repelling charms Al’s people used had a much greater effect on Sherlock than they did on John. 

“We’re happy to be here too,” John said, taking in the sudden appearance in the yard beside the house of a small crowd of people, all of them watching them intently as they approached.

“Dad! Da! You made it – I knew Dad would get you here, Da. Look at you – all confused by the silly charms! What is it about that great big brain of yours that gets so confounded by magic?”

Rosie insinuated herself between her two fathers, linking arms as John muttered “He’s got a special wing in his Mind Palace for magic but he can never find the door.”

“I really thought it would blow all his circuitry when we told you last year,” Rosie said as she bypassed the curious crowd and led them inside to meet Molly. “But he really took it quite well, all things considered.”

“You’re doing it again,” Sherlock murmured as his eyes focused on the odd clock on the mantel shelf. “Talking about me like I’m not even here.”

“He practically did a pirouette,” John said with a smile. “He threw out his back jumping up and down in giddy excitement.”

“I did not,” hissed Sherlock.

“You _did_ ,” laughed Rosie. “Granny Molly – look who I have.”

The hugs Molly bestowed on John and Sherlock left flour on Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock, for his part, was paying no attention to her gushing praise of their daughter but was focused on the mixing bowls and pots and pans behind her, all of which were engaged in one activity or another – stirring or mixing or mashing – even while she stood there hugging them.

“Sherlock, you knew to expect this,” John whispered as Rosie led them back outside. “Stop gaping. This is _normal_ here.”

“It most definitely is not _normal_ ,” Sherlock retorted as the stepped outside into the garden to find it nearly empty of people.

“Quidditch game,” Arthur said as he led them to seats overlooking the pitch and brought them lemonade.

“Al’s Seeker on his team,” Rosie informed them as she plopped down beside Sherlock. “And careful with that lemonade – it’s laced with firewhiskey.”

Sherlock took another sip of the very delicious lemonade and felt curls of fire buzz pleasantly through his extremities. “Am I going to remember any of this tomorrow?” he asked her as the figures on brooms raced and dove and performed moves that defied both gravity and science.

“Possibly – but not very likely,” she answered honestly. “Dad will, though. So he can tell you all about it.”

“It isn’t fair,” groused Sherlock. “My mind is – ”

“Locked to the impossible, and suspicious of even the improbable,” Rosie finished.

“They play this in _school_?” hissed John, leaning over just after one of the bludgers came dangerously close to the row of spectators.

“First years aren’t allowed,” commented Severus, who was sitting beside John. “Not since Harry Potter, anyway," he added, somewhat acidly.

“Oh – that’s a relief. So children have to be at least twelve to fly a hundred feet above the ground dodging cannon balls,” John quipped.

“Bludgers. They don’t explode. Well – most of them don’t. Not unless they’re charmed to do so.” Severus spoke idly, eyes on the pitch, then visibly flinched as a figure on a broom dove toward the ground.

“It’s Al,” Rose assured him. “He was feinting – look – Harry’s after the Snitch now.”

“Please tell me you don’t plan to send your children to … ” John frowned – this really was ridiculous. He was at a magical house with magical people watching a magical sport and he _still_ couldn’t remember the name of the magical school.

“Hamstead,” Sherlock supplied.

“And who says we’re having children anyway?” Rose declared.

“Or that they’ll even qualify,” added Sherlock. “They may be – ” He frowned and let out a sigh. “Muppets.”

“Muggles,” John corrected. 

“We have a wedding to get through before we even think about children – magical or Muppets,” Rosie said, giving Sherlock a fond smile. 

“I hope they’re magical,” said Sherlock. “They won’t hide things from me. They can pop over through the fireplace any time they need me to deduce their teachers.”

“Or when they need their hair arranged just so,” John added. “Or don’t know how many buttons of their suit coat to do up.”

“All of them,” said Severus, eyes still on the game. For someone who appeared to be paying them no mind at all, he was most definitely quite attuned to their conversation.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough, with the exception of the dreaded meeting where Al and Rosie sat down parents and grandparents and introduced their unconventional wedding plans.

“Sky diving,” Sherlock repeated. “With parachutes.”

“I won’t need one,” muttered Severus.

“What? You can fly too?” Sherlock exclaimed. The world really was unfair.

“We’ve got a honeymoon cottage picked out in Sussex,” Rosie continued, ignoring Sherlock and Severus. “We’ll land in front of it, fronting the ocean and have the ceremony right there. Close family only – that’s Aunt Harry, Uncle Mycroft, Gran Hudson, Aunt Molly and well – just about everyone here.”

“Of course,” John felt oddly compelled to agree with the ridiculous plan.

“And our theme is Camelot,” Al added. “What? It’s quirky – but it means everyone can wear what they want and feel perfectly comfortable.”

On their drive homeward that evening, Sherlock muttered over and over “Muggle Muggle Muggle Muggle Muggle” while John fretted about jumping out of a plane and his future grandchildren falling off brooms at that school in Scotland.

“Bogsworth,” supplied Sherlock. “Let’s just hope they’re Muppets.”

_End Part 1_


End file.
